After shoehorning himself into the space along the curb, Graham tried deciphering the sign above his car to determine his risk of being towed. Which Tuesday of the month was it? The pavement was rapidly burning a hole in his shoes, so he hoped for the best and set off in search of the office. He wasn't far from Faneuil Hall, and he heard the echoes of a street performer barking through a fuzzed-out amplifier. He crossed behind the Customs House and found the address - a dingy five story building crammed in among the banking towers like a dirty paperback on a shelf full of classics.
He opened the door, hoping for a gust of air conditioning, but was instead rewarded with a musty lobby that seemed sliced out of time. A directory of plastic letters pressed into faded brown felt listed the building's occupants. Lawyers, dentists, and oculists. Graham blinked. He hadn't heard of an oculist since Gatsby. Some of the directory's letters had fallen to an alphabet soup jumble at the bottom of the case, leaving darkened silhouettes in the fabric.
Well, this was the place Kurt had recommended. If anyone could get the grasping hands of the IRS from up Graham's arse, supposedly this guy could.
Three hours later, Graham winced his way down three flights of steps. It had been more painful than he'd expected. He glanced again at the directory on his way out. An honest mistake; there's not that many letters difference between Tax Attorney and Taxidermy.
At least the guy had thrown in a pretty nice Elk's head once they realized the error.
Opening: Benwah.....Continuation: Anonymous